Searching for Salvation
by Ender Mahe
Summary: A retelling of Diablo 3 trying to recapture it's darker themes and atmosphere. There is much more of a focus on the lore and ethical ramifications of the story, especially for the protagonists, but you can expect plenty of violence as well. Follows the Crusader(f) and Demon Hunter(m) with cameos by the other classes at appropriate moments. Mostly canonical except to fix plot holes.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: New Tristram**

Marcus Bastiat shivered as he trudged onward, the new-fallen snow slowly soaking into his old boots and numbing his toes. His breath misted in front of him with every step. It was colder than it should be for a mid-September night this far south. The cold didn't feel right. It was more than just the uncomfortable shift from the oppressive heat of The Burning Wastes, it felt . . . heavy. Oppressive. Even the gnarled, old trees that lined both sides of the beaten dirt trail seemed to sag down, their branches drooping low and threatening to tangle the inadequate clothing he'd brought from the desert.

He shivered again. He had thought the mountain crossing to the east had been cold, but it was a dry cold; down here it was a damp, humid cold that straight to the bones with every breeze. He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, settled the crossbow more comfortably against his shoulders, and marched onward.

The path wound its way deeper into the woods. The trees grew closer together, their branches snarled into a massive tangle that blocked out the moonlight. The breeze died away, blocked by the dense treeline and leaving Marcus in a growing stillness, a silence stretched tight, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

He paused, slowly scanning back and forth in the dim light. The silence rang in his ears. Something did not feel right. He slowly slipped his crossbow off its sling and clutched the seasoned old wood close. He cranked the string back and felt left-handed in the quiver at his side for one of the two-dozen goose-feather fletched arrows without taking his eyes off the path. He set the shaft onto the weapon and knocked it to the draw string.

He took a slow, deep breath, and started moving forward again, carefully placing each foot. He had taken a handful of steps when he heard it; a low snuffling sound. It didn't sound like any animal Marcus had encountered, and combined with the rumors and secondhand accounts he'd been seeking out . . . could it be? Could this be the epicenter, the ground zero for the cursed star that had fallen from the sky and sent whispers and shadows across the land?

The soft ground cover of pine needles and mulch masked Marcus' footfalls as he approached. He used the sound to guide him off the path and into the deeper gloom. But he had to be careful now, easy . . .

Slowly a shape formed, a darker outline low to the ground, hunched over something. What was it? Could it be a _snap_.

The creature whirled towards the sound of the twig snapping beneath Marcus' feet. Marcus raised the crossbow to his shoulder, aimed at the center of the shadowy outline and pulled the trigger. The now-string snapped forward with a twang and the creature fell backwards as the bot thudded into it.

Whatever it was, it didn't die.

Instead it screeched and howled in pain, shattering the tense silence of the night. Marcus immediately started cranking the draw-string back, but it took time, and more sounds were coming from all around him in the darkness, drawn towards the creatures' moans. The string snapped back into place and he whipped another bolt from his quiver.

There were a lot more sounds now, and more than the rustle of foosteps and damp leaves. He could make out more dark forms shambling through the darkness, moaning. Marcus raised his crossbow. Then the creature he'd hit climbed to its feet again.

Marcus lowered the crossbow and ran. But he was no coward. He did not retreat to the safety of an inn, drawing whatever these monsters were after him; he ran forward, charging down the path past more half-seen creatures.

He was breathing heavily by the time he broke out of the trees. The tenuous path merged with a more well-established, beaten dirt road. A slow-burn torch tied to a metal post illuminated a half-broken sign reading "New Tristram."

Marcus charged into the light and turned to face the woods, raising the crossbow. The light stretched to the first row of trees, their bare branches knifing out at all angles, casting deep shadows. And out of the shadows they came, stumbling, slithering, and crawling into the light.

Marcus felt his lips pull back into a snarl.

They were ugly, these things that had once been human. They had risen up from their graves, planned or unplanned, and the risen showed it in their various states of decay. Some were largely intact, though their heads lolled uncontrollably from necks snapped by a hangman's noose. Others were almost entirely degraded, their bloated, blue-faced corpses barely holding together. Still others bore hideous marks of torture and violence.

There were lots of them . . . too many. Far more than the bolts left in his quiver. His finger tightened on the trigger as he tunnel-visioned on the nearest corpse. Its lips had rotted away, leaving a clench-jawed grin beneath the empty eye-sockets.

No. He took a slow breath through his mouth to avoid gagging and eased his finger off the trigger. He only had one shot, and he didn't know what was lying in wait ahead of him. He grimaced, turned, and ran towards Tristram.

The road to town was an awful sight. Wagons lay smashed and flipped where they'd been swarmed under by hordes of the risen, and a handful still remained, desperately clawing at the last shreds of flesh on the horses' bones. The driver and his family were in slightly better shape; you could still tell which gender they had been, but it was just a matter of time before the zombies finished off the meatier creatures and returned their attention to the scattered bodies. None had made it more than ten paces from the wagon

Marcus hurried on towards the town, scattering crows as he went, though it didn't take long for them to settle back in to their grim task. But it wasn't only humans and beasts the crows feasted on. Risen had been cut down as well, their limbs hacked off and smashed in. Many still twitched feebly, their malicious spirits straining to make use of limbs no longer there in the endless attempt to feed. And as evidence of resistance to the tide of hellspawn grew, he could make out sounds in the distance over his belabored breathing – no, not just sounds, the clangor of battle. There were still survivors in this New Tristram.

He charged forward now, more confident in his footing as torches grew more frequent. At last he rounded a bend and stumbled onto a pitched battle in the clearing at the town's gate. Marcus took in the scene quickly, unfazed by the all too familiar sight of ghastly creatures crawling out of the woods to his right. He slid left, towards the barricades set up around the town gate, and brought up his crossbow.

His first bolt took what had once been a woman through the eye socket, dropping the creature instantly. His second snapped the arm clean off a monster as it tried to strike at one of the town's defenders, a hulking man in battle-stained leather armor that held the center of the gap in the fortifications. The man didn't hesitate, seizing the advantage and slicing deep with his bloody sword. The creature fell, and the man waved urgently. "Oi! Get inside, as quick as yeh can!"

Unfortunately, whether due to the man's shout or Marcus' bolts he couldn't tell, the zombies had noticed his arrival as well. Time seemed to slow, and terror threatened, its icy fingers clawing at his mind as dozens of broken and shattered faces turned to look at him in an endless moment, their empty eyes aglow in the light of burning corpses in the stake-lined trench to the defenders' right and left.

No, he would not be afraid. He reached into the fire at his core and let the heat of his hatred burn away the last tendrils of fear.

He charged the line, firing as fast as he was able. The creatures fell before his crossbow, but he was still twenty paces away when his hand came up empty – he was out of bolts, and the creatures rushed in, oblivious to the horrendous casualties inflicted by the defenders as they turned their backs on them and charged at this new, closer prey.

A risen missing both arms rushed him. Marcus sidestepped and smashed it with the butt of his crossbow, sending it sprawling. Two more came at him, their shredded fingers stripped down to bony talons. Marcus used his crossbow as a club, smashing the left creature's head. It went down hard, but the blow smashed the crossbow's delicate arms, leaving Marcus with a splintered chunk of wood. The second risen grabbed him, scratching mercilessly. He shoved it back, but another crashed into him, sending him stumbling backwards. His feet caught on the severed torso of a zombie and he crashed ot the ground hard.

The monsters swarmed him, piling on top of him and pinning him to the ground. The risen's dead flesh was cold against his skin. The writing pile of corpses forced the air from his lungs. Marcus twisted, bucked, and pushed with all the strength of desperation, but it was useless. The weight grew even heavier and Marcus' face, pinned against the ground, started to sink into the churned up, ice-cold earth. His struggling weakened as more and more effort was required just to draw in breath.

He was sinking. Half his face was under the muck now. He gasped breath through the side of his mouth, closing his left eye against the dirt, while his right watched as a risen's snarling head inched its way through the pile, rotten, spiky teeth already working in anticipation of the soft flesh of his face.

It was the end.

Marcus felt conflicting emotions. Part of him seethed with anger, but part of him felt a sort of relief – no more nightmares, no more hatred, no more violence.

A steel blade clashed through his tomb of flesh and pierced the risen's skull, pinning it to the ground. Marcus stared at it, watching as the dead, black blood dribbled slowly from its gaping jaws, no pulse to force it from the cracked skin.

The weight lifted off him abruptly and Marcus gasped for air. He pulled his face out of the muck with a squelch and looked up to see the huge man in leather armor. He reached a gloved hand down and grabbed Marcus' limp, gasping form by the shirt and hauled him to his feet.

"Come on, get up. We have to get you inside."

Marcus coughed, which the man seemed to take as assent. He threw Marcus' arm over his huge shoulders and broke into a jog towards the battle line, which wavered in his absence, but held. For the moment.

The man bulldozed his way through the monsters until, at last, Marcus' savior shoulder-checked a risen aside and there was a man beyond it; exhausted, filthy, and bleeding from a handful of wounds, but still a man. He stepped aside, more than half on instinct, as the juggernaut charged through and deposited him roughly against the inside of the gate before charging back to the front.

Marcus savored a long three breaths of just lying motionless. Then time was up and he hauled himself to his feet. The city was ringed by a solid wooden palisade as far as he could see, topped with sharpened stakes. The gate itself was maybe a dozen paces wide and the men fought packed tight, too bright to see through clearly. But there, out front, was that massive broadsword swinging high, splattering blood. Too high, really. Like a farmer chopping wood, not a soldier. He brushed the thought aside and looked up at the palisade's top. It had no battlements, but they'd built two little watchtower posts. He slung his crushed crossbow and scrambled up the ladder to stand beside a terrified-looking boy who was a teenager, at best.

The broken palisade on the other tower told clearly enough what had happened to the other archer. Marcus hoped without much faith that the fall had killed the boy and pushed him from his mind.

"Stand aside boy." He moved quickly enough, the war between fear and duty finally tilted by the excuse, and Marcus stepped past him, plucking the bow from the boy's nervous fingers. He stepped up to the firing stand, eyes cold, and let drew the first shaft.

It took another fifteen minutes before the last corpse fell to the earth with a sickening squelch of steel through flesh. Marcus let out a slow breath as the adrenaline drained from his system and the burning weight of overworked muscles began to register. He turned to climb back down and found the boy still there, staring at him wide-eyed. He sighed again. "Stay calm, breath out with the release, hold it steady. It's easy enough."

The boy kept up his wordless staring and Marcus shrugged helplessly before plopping the borrowed weapon into the boys hands and brushing past him to the ladder. Either he got it or he didn't. That was kind of how it went with archery. Besides, Marcus had never been much for words.

The town itself wasn't the smallest he'd seen, but it certainly wasn't large, either. Six, maybe eight homes, all built around an inn that looked packed to the rafters. No wonder the lifeless were so desperate to get in. That much life packed that lose together? It must be driving them mad. And when they breached the walls it would be a slaughter. Honestly it was nothing short of a miracle they hadn't gone already.

Regardless, they wouldn't hold out for much longer. Another few days, a week at most, assuming they had that much food. He shrugged and settled down against one of the inn's outer walls, beneath one of the overhanging eaves. The wood was warm from the fires within and the inn blocked the wind. It was enough.

He had just closed his eyes to try to get some rest when a shadow fell over him. He peaked an eye open to see the giant who had saved him earlier. "Hello there, friend. Thanks for your help at the gate. I've never seen anyone fight like that."

Marcus shrugged. "They were hellspawn. They had to die."

The man nodded and extended a huge hand. Marcus took it reluctantly and shook, though as the man's hand swallowed his nearly up to the wrist it was more of him shaking Marcus. "I'm Captain Rumford, by the way. What brings you to these parts?"

"I'm here to find evil and kill it."

Rumford blinked, nonplussed. "Well, there's no shortage of that around here. We'll be glad to have you around." And with that he set off.

Marcus hunched back down in relief and wrapped his tattered cloak tight around him.

…

"Over there! It's the hero of Tristram, let's go see!"

The oncoming thunder of children's footsteps prompted Marcus to crack open an eye. A whole herd of children charged straight towards him, pointing and laughing with excitement. Marcus half rose, confused. They didn't think _he_ was a . . . the kids charged right past him, thumping through the inn's front door. Marcus settled back down with a grunt.

Stupid kids.

…

Johanna Svetsal looked up as the front door of the morbidly-named Slaughtered Calf Inn slammed open and the children ran inside, chattering away and throwing conspicuous glances in her direction. She gave them a big smile which produced a slew of giggles before they retreated back out the front door.

"You'll have to forgive the young ones. They've never seen a Crusader before. And after all the stories they've been hearing about your defense of the front gate, I'm afraid their curiosity gets the better of them."

Johanna looked back at the young woman sitting across from her. "Please, Leah, there's nothing to apologize for. Now, is there anything more you can tell me about what caused all of this?"

Leah sighed and stared at the chipped mug held tightly between her hands. "I wish there was more I could tell you. Uncle Deckard and I were studying some records in the old Monastery when something just, just _smashed_ through the roof. The floor collapsed and Uncle Deckard must have fallen deeper inside. I tried to look for him, but the dead were already rising. I came back here to rally the militia, but that . . . that . . ."

Johanna reached out and put a comforting hand on the young woman's shoulder. "It's alright, Leah. You couldn't have known."

Leah choked back her tears and nodded. "Th-thanks. I just wish I could tell you more about what's causing this. But nothing can be done unless we find a way to slow down the dead."

The Crusader leaned forward, her fingers steepling thoughtfully in front of her. "Now that I've had a chance to rest I'll go speak with Captain Rumford and see what can be done." She nodded once more to Leah, rose from her chair, and stepped over to Rumford's table, all the while willing herself to ignore the many eyes that followed her every move when they thought she wasn't looking. Rumford hastily climbed to his feet. "My lady."

"Please, Captain, there is no need."

"Of course, my lady." Still, he didn't sit until she had taken her own chair. Somehow, despite the shortages of everything, another drink seemed to materialize in front of her. "Captain, what can I do to help with the risen?"

The big man shrugged helplessly. "Honestly, my lady, I'm not sure. We've had some success holding the walls, but beyond that . . ."

Johanna smiled bracingly. Don't sell yourself short. You and your people have done remarkably well."

Rumford flushed, but sat up a little straighter. "Thank you, my lady."

"Now, why don't you tell me what happened when you did go beyond the walls. I'm sorry to press you, but I need tok now what I will be facing out there."

He nodded and swallowed hard before beginning. "When Leah told us the dead were pouring out of the Cathedral we quickly went to put an end to it. At first it seemed we were succeeding, but th- but they just kept coming." He glanced around at the already frightened townsfolk and leaned in, lowering his voice. "There were these monsters, these women . . . things. They sort of vomited up more and more risen. There were just so many of them. We- well, we were overcome. Captain Daltyn and the men fought valiantly. They protected me. I am no solider. I am- I was a farmer. I should not have been out there with them. I do not know how I made it back here. None of the others did. And now, somehow, I'm supposed to lead the militia."

"And lead them you have, Captain." She emphasized the title ever so slightly. She put a hand reassuringly on his shoulder as she rose to her feet. He rose a half-second later. "Thank you, milady."

The eyes followed her again as she walked calmly to the exit and, at last, the door closed behind her and she was alone. She dropped her head and closed her eyes, just for a moment, just to refocus until . . . what was that smell? She glanced over and saw- was that a man?

It was. He was mostly covered in a tattered cloak of mottled gray and back and huddled up against the inn's wall. He seemed to be asleep. She dropped to a knee at his side. "Hey, are you alright?" It was hard to tell, it looked like half his face was covered in mud. She reached out to tap him on the shoulder. "Hello? Are you—"

Steel flashed in his hand and she stepped back, surprised at the snarl on his face. His eyes almost seemed to . . .

In an instant the knife vanished back into his cloak and his face blanked, but he couldn't quite keep the hostility out of his voice. "What do you want?"

Johanna climbed back to her feet warily. "I was making sure you were still alive. Clearly you are, so I'll be on my way." She turned and started the walk to her tent, shaking her head. Some people.

…

Marcus watched the woman warily as she turned to go. There was something . . . off about her. He watched her as she walked away, trying to put his finger on it. She was tall, a couple of inches taller than him at least, and built solid where he was wiry. She wore close-fitted pants and a tunic, both black, with the trident of the Zakarum faith stitched across the chest.

Well, it hardly mattered. So long as she didn't get in the way, he had no quarrel or business with her. She could go on and save as many towns as she liked. His business was with a much darker lot.

…

Johanna entered her little tent set up on the village green and breathed out a long, slow sigh. In here she didn't have to hide her weariness or the worry lines. The situation was growing desperate. She'd held the gates now for several days, but she had to sleep some time, and every time they had taken casualties while she slept. And the attacks were getting worse, not better. No, she couldn't help them wait it out here—she needed to take care of the root of the problem, whatever it was.

Well, there was no sense delaying the inevitable. She breathed out a long slow breath, then reached out to grab the first piece of armor. Putting it all on was a rather complex operation, but over the past two centuries of wandering necessity had forced her predecessors among the Crusaders to develop methods of putting it on themselves. Sometimes there was an apprentice to help, but often there was not, and they certainly never had anything like the squires the Paladins, their distant cousins, boasted.

The armor itself had been heavily modified by the many hands it had passed through since first leaving Kejistan all those years ago. It was heavier, stronger, and lighter than anything else like it. _Still_ , she thought with a little ooph of effort as she slipped on the breastplate, _it's heavy enough to be getting on with._ At least it was wearable enough to live in it if she had to. She slipped the white tabard with its black trident of Zakarum that served as her surcoat and marked her as a Crusader over her armor. Finally, she picked up her shield and flail. _Right. It's time._

She took one more look around. Everything was still packed—she'd never _un_ packed. There was nothing else to take. She stepped out from the tent and marched towards the front gate, taking care to smile at the people who had started to gather and wave, hiding inside the tired sigh. _Oh, for goodness' sake!_ The guards at the gates were _saluting_ her now.

She nodded to them in acknowledgment and hurried past them and out into the woods. Only when she was out of sight of the gates, and at last away from the smell of burning bodies, did she finally start to relax a little. There were just too many people, too many eyes watching her every move in there.

Of course, that meant it was time to deal with this "falling star," whatever it was, and be done with this thing one way or another.

…

Rupert watched the Crusader in her heavy and massive shield with awe as she marched past the men at the gates with awe. She was going out there to assault the armies of the dead single-handedly, like something out of a story. All too soon she was out of sight and his mind returned to his own duties, however dull they might seem compared to a hero like her. He reached out to pick up the long-bow he was supposed to be guarding the town with, but his hand came away empty.

He looked down at its regular perch and gulped. It was gone, and not just that. A full of quiver of arrows was missing to. _Captain Rumford is going to kill me . . ._

…

Johanna stayed off the main road, which seemed to attract the things like flies to a corpse, and kept to the woods. Yes, there was definitely something wrong here—the woods seemed to be getting darker, like it was twilight moving into night, despite the early hour. There was a feeling in the air. The wind cut to the bone with an icy chill and there was a tension in the air, like steel stretched to the breaking point and ready to snap at any moment.

This, whatever it was, was beyond some rogue wizard.

Another risen scrambled towards her out of the bushes, hissing through black and broken teeth. She brought the three-headed flail down with a crack of splitting bone and the dead body lay still once more. She took a slow, shuddery breath and tried to bring her heart rate back down to a normal cadence. Where were these things _coming_ from? There shouldn't be this many bodies just lying around out in the woods. It was almost as if they were being summoned or created somehow . . .

A strangled howl brought Jahanna's flail around in another crushing backhand, shattering the ribcage of yet another risen. It scrambled back to its feet, awkwardly unbalanced by the new hole in its chest. Her next blow crippled its left leg, and another crushed its skull.

Yet the gutteral howl didn't stop. In fact, it seemed to be coming from . . . Ice cold hands closed on her neck from behind. She flinched, jerking away from the contact. One fo the hands ripped free, fingernails raking bloody furrows into the right side of her neck. She spun left and crunched an elbow into something bony with a sickening squelch. But where a normal opponent would have let go, or at least loosened their grasp, the undead merely grunted and clamped its hand back around Kyrena's neck, choking the air from her. She dropped her flail and shield, too close to use either effectively, and grabbed at the hands tightening around her like vices.

The creature inches away from her was hideous, the rotting remains of what had once been a woman. Patches of black hair covered sickened, yellow skin. It opened its mouth and Johanna braced herself for the bite, but it didn't come. The mouth kept opening wider and wider, jaw completely unhinged. To Johanna's horror, something was coming _out_ of its mouth. Fingers, followed by a hand, a wrist, an entire forearm of another risen reached out from inside the monster and grabbed her face. She tried to jerk away, to turn her head, to knock them over, anything, but it was hard to think over the pounding in her head, hard to see past the explosions of color in her vision.

Something whistled through the air and landed with a muted _kathunk_ and she could breath again. She collapsed to a knee, sucking in deep breaths. There at her feet was the hand that had chocked her, completely severed.

The risen reached for her again with its own hands, but staggered as an arrow crunched into its shoulder, throwing off its balance.

It was all the opening she needed. In an instant the flail was back in her hands and she smashed in what was left of its head with a two-handed swing. It crumpled to the ground and lay still. Johanna stood still for a moment as well, panting painfully through her sore neck and trying to work her way through what had just happened. Someone had saved her?

How became clear as a man strode warily into the clearing, a bow in his hands, arrow knocked. Then she saw the disheveled, shredded black clothing and it clicked into place. "It's you . . ." she wheezed out, her voice raw.

He put a finger to his lips and advanced slowly, never taking his eyes off the creature. He paused about a foot away, studying it carefully for a long moment before nodding to himself, drawing back the bow, and sending an arrow thudding into it. Satisfied that it was dead he turned and started examining her neck without ceremony.

"Did it bite you?"

Johanna shook her head.

"Good. Try not to talk. Now go back to town and let Rumford know that . . ." He broke off as she shook her head more vigorously. She might be a little taken aback, but her place was out here, fighting these monsters, not cowering back in the inn.

The man's eyes tightened for a moment. "You'll die."

She shrugged. Her master would be disappointed she hadn't completed her tasks, but she'd be even more disappointed if she didn't fight. "What . . ." she struggled to get out in a hoarse whisper, "what is it?"

"That? It's called a wretched mother. They eat whatever bits of corpses they can find and reassemble them inside their stomach. See how bloated the stomach is as a result? That's where they get their name." He paused for a moment to take in her expression, trying to gauge how shocked she was. And she was shocked, to a point. But at the end of the day, evil was evil. The magnitude or type of evil might change, but it didn't change her duty.

"Still," he muttered to himself," wretched mothers don't just happen. They are made . . ." He shrugged and bent to scoop up the heavy knife he'd thrown to sever the hand that had choked her. He carefully wiped off the creature's black blood which hissed as it wilted the grass. She recognized it as Captain Rumford's and shot him a questioning glance, but he ignored it.

"Go back to town or don't. It makes no difference to me." And with that he set off into the darkness.

Johanna let him go. She wasn't entirely certain she could stop him even if she tried. Besides, he could clearly take care of himself, and the more of those things they killed out here the fewer the townspeople would have to face. He'd certainly proved a point, however—she needed to be more careful.

After one more slow breath to gather herself she set off again, eyes searching the darkness for any more of those wretched mothers. The next body she encountered, however, was staying dead. For the moment, at least. She approached the face-down form slowly, but it was very dead.

She took one more quick look around but she was alone. Johanna bent over and rolled the man onto his front to get a better look at him. It was one of the militia that had gone out with Rumford before her arrival. His face was bone white, locked into an expression that was equal parts fear and pain. The massive wound in his back had been what took him down, but he'd been clawed all over even after he fell. Killed in the mad flight back to New Tristram.

Still, perhaps Rumford had been mistaken; in the noise and chaos of the fight, perhaps another militia-man had survived. It gave her something to focus on besides her own fear at least, and their flight came from Old Tristram, which seemed to be the center of this whole mess. She could hear scuttling from the woods—more risen were nearby.

Not much time then. She mouthed a prayer of forgiveness, gripped her flail tightly, and brought it down with a sickening squelch on the skull of the dead man, which burst apart. _Rest easy, warrior. You won't become one of them._ She turned and raised her weapon as the corpses skittered towards her in the darkness.

…

Marcus watched the crumbling walls of Old Tristram from his perch up in a tree as old as the city itself and thought. Something seemed wrong about all of this. The risen were wandering in loose groups, resorting to the most primitive of human instincts for company. It made running into one of those herds a dicey proposition, but if you could get around them then picking off the lone wanderers wasn't too difficult, as the half-dozen arrow-riddled corpses between him and where he'd left that fool woman attested. Unfortunately he didn't dare retrieve the arrows, and he was running low.

That meant he couldn't afford to waste time fighting the risen; he needed to find the source of this problem. But there just didn't seem to _be_ one. Anger shot through him as he thought of his oath, and he forced his jaw to unclench. He had no choice. _Discipline! Fight smart or die with your task undone, your vow broken._ His breathing slowed as the phrase his teacher had told him that first day echoed through his mind. Okay. Something clearly started this, awakening some of the risen and at least a couple of dormant wretched mothers. Yet for all that there was no real intent, no objective, to their movements. Whatever had woken them up wasn't controlling them now. That meant dealing with it would be easier, but that finding whoever had started this mess would be harder.

Damn.

Well, his only real option then was to get into town and start looking for any evidence that had been left behind. He dropped silently from his tree branch perch and crept forwards to the base of the crumbling walls. A moment later and he'd scaled them and dropped to the ground inside.

…

Johanna was sweating despite the cold by the time she caught sight of the old city gates. She'd killed another two wretched mothers, but her armor now sported another half-dozen scratches. The closer she got to the old ruins the more of the things there seemed to be. She dropped her flail for a moment to run a gloved hand through her greasy hair. Some of the blonde strands had escaped her pony-tail and were plastered to her forehead. Hardly a glorious image most people envisioned when they thought of a crusader out battling evil. Somehow that thought didn't bother her very much.

Still, one thing was pretty clear. She could be out here for months and she still wouldn't make much of a dent in the number of these things. No wonder Rumford and his fellows had been driven back. She couldn't just wander around here killing them; she needed to go deeper, needed to find what was causing all of this. The fallen star had hit the old Cathedral, so that was where she needed to go.

Groans sounded from her left, another horde of risen shambling towards her. She slung her shield across her back and broke into a trot that was about as fast as she could go in full armor. More risen were drawn to the sound of her jangling armor, and soon the sound of risen came from all directions. She was committed now. She was going in.

…

Marcus was stuck. He'd snuck his way into a burned-out cottage frustratingly near the cathedral grounds. But before he could move past it another herd of risen had moved in and taken up residence. He'd managed to climb up to one of the the still mostly-stable rafters where he now lay, face pressed flat against the blackened wood that still smelled of smoke. But even if he could make his way past them, he could see that the thick wall around the old church was still intact, and that someone, probably the militia, had chained shut the gate.

Below him the risen muttered and milled about aimlessly, and he left the problem of the gate for later. They milled about aimlessly, but seemed to be following a wretched mother, the largest he'd ever seen. He closed his eyes and force his patience, testy even at the best of times, to hold firm as he listened to the abomination vomiting out yet another wretched mother. Damn. Even if he'd had a full quiver, there were too many of them for him to take out. And what he actually had aside from his dagger was a single heavy knife and eleven arrows. All he could do now was wait for them to move on.

Marcus opened his eyes as he heard something in the distance. A moment later and the risen rustled, their moaning quieting for a moment as they, too, heard the sound—the clinking of heavy plate armor. _Huh, she's still alive._ Still, from the racket she was making she'd have a thousand of the things all over her in about a minute. He readied himself to make a break for it. He itched to kill that monstrosity, almost physically needed to kill it. It was what he did, who he was, his way out. But it was impossible. Unless . . .

…

Johanna took in the shattered remains of Old Tristram quickly. The hordes of risen would be on her soon. Even now they shambled towards her, arms reaching out, eager to do to her what they'd done to the militia who's bodies she'd jogged past, one by one, trailing a horde of risen in her wake. She'd done what she had to do to ensure their rest, pausing just long enough to mouth a quick prayer on their behalf.

She scanned the burnt out, overgrown remains of the village for a place to hole up and bottleneck the endless swarm of the dead while she figured out what to do. That building there, the old blacksmith's, might work, or—woah, that was a _lot_ of wretched mothers by that old home. Could that he what was causing all of this? At the very least, taking some of those things out before she went down could only help the village. And right in the middle of them was a huge wretched mother, easily two feet taller than she was.

Okay. Priorities. One: kill that thing. Two: kill the other wretched mothers. Three: get back to the village. Well, that was that. She nodded to herself, unslung her shield, and charged.

…

Marcus couldn't help but be impressed. He'd seen enough knights, and even a paladin or two, that plate armor itself wasn't enough to impress him. And while the flail was a little unusual for a weapon, there was nothing particularly special about it, either. No, what impressed him was how fast she did it, how fast she changed mental gears.

Every demon hunter with more than a year or so of experience had, at one time or another, committed themselves to a fight where they believed, deep down inside, that they were going to die if they went forward. Even for the most seasoned it took a moment, a minute, to shift mindsets from fighting to survive to fighting to kill, from leaving open an avenue of retreat to simply spending yourself well. But the woman out there, she did it in a heartbeat, in a single breath.

The armored woman stormed forward. The handful of risen between her and the clump of wretched mothers bounced off her raised shield as she plowed onward, eyes locked onto the oversized wretched mother in the shredded, moldy white burial dress.

The mothers clustered around the monster unhinged their jaws and new risen started clawing their way free. The woman didn't slow, instead smashing headlong into the group with an almighty crash. The impact sent them all sprawling down to the icy ground. The creatures shrieked, their limbs awkward as they struggled to regain their feet.

 _Now!_ Marcus struck, launching himself from his perch and driving the heavy knife deep into rotten flesh. The wretched mother screeched as the blade knocked off its spine and lashed out in pain, backhanding Marcus with far more than the strength she'd had in life.

He took the blow on his chest and flipped over onto his back, the wind completely knocked out of him, and helplessly tried to draw breath.

…

Johanna had no idea where the man had come from, or how he'd managed to appear a second time when she was in trouble, but she was grateful for it as she took advantage of the momentary distraction he'd provided and regained her feet. She charged back in relentlessly, but too slow to stop the blow that flung him aside. He didn't get back up.

She brought her flail down on the beast again and again and again until with a final cry it fell still.

…

Marcus struggled to get back to his feet. He was still dizzy, his sense of balance off-kilter, his vision swimming. He held onto his borrowed bow but his hands were shaky, too weak to draw back the string. The knife was gone, leaving him only one choice. His fingers clenched on the hilt of his dagger. It was time. He was more than ready.

And yet . . . he hesitated. Through the fuzziness eh could still see the armored woman on her feet. She was backing towards him, her feet set widely, holding the ground at the burnt-out hole in the wall against the horde of risen.

Defending him. She was defending him. He laughed at the irony of it, though all that emerged was a feeble cough.

What was she doing now, muttering to herself? Cursing herself for getting cornered protecting his sorry ass? Or could she be _praying?_ Ha. He knew all about prayers whispered as the demons closed in around you, and he'd learned one thing for sure.

They didn't work.

His hand slipped from the knife's grip as unconsciousness closed in, the sky shifting colors wildly, shapes shifting in the darkness, and the woman's flail glowing orange with fire . . .

…

Rumford stood before the narrow opening in the gates, the men he was only now beginning to think of as "his" men stood behind him. And they were joined by a handful of women wearing ill-fitting leather jerkins, awkwardly but fiercely wielding pitchforks or swords. They'd insisted on taking their wounded or dead husband's places, and they'd been adamant. "If Johanna can fight, then so can we," and they'd said it in that tone all women seemed to have that brooked no argument. The Crusader had certainly made an impact. He wasn't sure how he felt about that yet, but the truth was he needed every able-bodied person he could get. There had been no more arrivals from the nearby farms since the Jorgens had come in wild-eyed and smelling of smoke almost a week ago.

 _Come on now, Rumford. They're looking to you now, don't let your thoughts go wandering off. Especially on a night like this._

Another inhuman shriek split the night and he was far from the only man who flinched. Whatever was happening out there seemed to be getting worse. The trees were rustling with movement, and it had been nearly two weeks since he'd seen any sign of an animal out there. Or rather, an animal that was still living. The shrieks continued, more of them now, though thankfully still distant.

Captain Daltyn would have said something reassuring, something to give his people courage, but nothing was coming to mind. "Steady now," he said. A boy barely sixteen, just become a man, looked over at him and swallowed hard. But then he nodded and set himself more firmly. Akarat knew he was no Daltyn, but he'd do what he could.

He hoped it would be enough.

The shrieking got worse over the next long hour, which seemed to last an eternity. That was when the smoke started to rise, its murky outline blocking out the stars from the direction of Old Tristram.

Jacob, Rumford's unofficial second-in-command, stepped closer to him, nervously tightening his grip on his sword. "Do you think she's alright out there, Rumford?" he whispered. The Captain nodded as confidently as he could. "She's fine, Jacob, I'm sure she's fine. You've seen that giant flail she waves around, haven't you? Why, she's probably kicking their arses!" He forced out a chuckle and hoped it sounded more natural than it felt.

"But supposing they got inside her reach, how do you think she'd—" "She's _fine,_ Jacob." Rumford glanced around meaningfully at the watching, half-terrified faces around him. "She'll be fine," he repeated a little less harshly.

In the distance something flashed bright enough to light up the darkness for an instant and the howling in the night grew louder. _Please, Akarat, let her be alright_.

Things grew quieter over the next hour. The torches were replaced. The other shift came out, their steps apprehensive, while his shift positively fled back behind the gates. Rumford held his ground and forced his eyes to stay open. He couldn't keep this up much longer. He was already weaker than he should ever have allowed himself to become, but with the cut rations and this shift being without the Crusader, or Johanna as she'd always insist he call her, who normally lead them, well, it was hard to find time to get some shut-eye, and . . .

"I see something!" hissed one of the lookouts, Thomas' boy, thought Rumford. The Captain stared into the darkened shadows of the trees made all the darker by the flickering torches on the gates. He couldn't see anything. He signaled their little home-made guard towers and felt a momentary bubble of pride as they immediately obeyed and drew back on their bow strings but held their fire, awaiting his second command. They were starting to come together. Heavens knew they'd had enough practice at it.

"Captain, I'd appreciate it if you had your men hold their fire." The strong, steady voice of Johanna visibly relaxed the guards, even with its faint note of exhaustion, and a relieved grin broke across Rumford's face. "That I can do, m'lady." In fact, they had already lowered their weapons, but Rumford paid it no mind. His eyes, like every other, were drawn towards the armored woman as she strode out of the night. Her armor gleamed with reflected torchlight, somehow no less bright for the splattered mud and blood or the black-clad figure draped over a massive shoulder pauldron and arm. They stared as if at one of the archangels themselves, come to rescue them.

It took a moment for Rumford to get past that first look and see that she moved stiffly, with a bit of limp that favorered her left leg. The right side of her armor looked scorched somehow, as if it had been held for too long near an open flame, and her exotic hair so blonde it was almost white was smeared with ash, which also clung to the sweat on her face.

But she was there, and she was alive. "I see you've returned to us, and thoughtfully retrieved our little thief while you were at it. He eyed his own knife at unconscious man's belt in irritation, but it melted away as he looked back at her. "You're as generous as ever, m'lady."

"Johanna," she responded absently. "And I had to bring him back, Captain. He saved my life."

Rumford wilted at the hint of reproach in her voice, but she softened it with a smile. "Many, hopefully most, of the wretched mothers are dead. Things will be easier now, I hope. But if you don't mind, I'd like to get some rest and take a look at our mysterious friend's injuries."

"Of course, m'lady," he said, nodding deeply in a half-bow. "Brendan, Hoyt, give her a had with that shield!"

The two men untied the huge thing from her arm and staggered as its full weight hit them.

"And it's Johanna, Captain!" she called over her shoulder with fond exasperation.

By Akarat, the woman was invincible. How had he ever doubted her?

…

Johanna collapsed the moment the tent flap closed behind her, completely spent. The man groaned but didn't awaken as he rolled off her shoulder. She lay there, utterly exhausted and half asleep for a while. She had to get up again, sooner or later, she knew. Probably sooner. The armor wouldn't take care of itself, after all, especially after how singed she'd gotten it. Her flail was probably in quite a state, too. She'd never forced it to hold the fire of divine wrath for so long before, and she was a little surprised it was still in one piece. Yet every time she decided to get up the thought of lifting all that armor again kept her limp. _Gathering my strength is all. I'll get up in a moment. Any second now. Ugh, this is why I need an apprentice._

"My lady J-Johanna, it's Angela. Auntie Mary sent me over with some dinner for you. May I come in?"

Johanna's eyes shot open. "Um, Just a moment!" she called, muffled by the dirt and the jangling of her armor as she tried to surge to her feet, only to collapse again, spread eagled.

"What was that? I can—oh!" Angela positively squeaked at Johanna's undignified posture but, thankfully, managed not to drop the big plate piled high with steaming chicken and vegetables. It smelled so good Johanna's mouth watered.

"I'll eat in a minute, dear, as soon as I get my armor off. Thank you very much for bringing it by. Could you put it on the ground there, next to my shield? Yes, right there will be fine," she directed from the ground. "Thank you."

"Yo-you're welcome," she replied uncertainly, edging towards the tent flap. Once within arms reach she bolted for it.

"Tell Mary thank you for me!" Johanna called out after the girl, hoping she kept any of the, ah, irregularities of their conversation from getting out.

…

"She was _what?_ "

Bron the Barkeep, as he was known on formal occasions, looked up from counting their remaining supplies at his wife Mary's exclamation. This evening's meal for that crusader of theirs had put quite a dent in their stores, not that he was complaining, you understand, but someone needed to keep track of these things.

 _Uh oh._

He'd seen that look before; eyes set with determination so fierce she looked like one of the royal hunting dog with its ears pinned back, locked in on a target. In fact, it reminded him distinctly of the look on her face immediately prior to his completely independently and of his own free will asking her to marry him, not that he'd ever regretted it, mind you. But when she got that look things seemed to happen just the way she wanted them to.

"Bron, dear, I'm going to borrow Angela for a while. Will you be alright? The Lady Johanna has asked for a hand with something."

"Yes dear, I'll be fine." Bron ducked his head back down and kept counting. He knew better than to get int eh way of that particular force of nature.

"Good, now Angela, go fetch your mother and have her bring a bucket and a good towel, the nice yellow one, as well as . . ."

…

Johanna figured standing up would be much easier if she got rid of some of the weight, and it was perfectly simple to remove at least some of her armor from right there in her leaning rest position. In fact, she could be even more efficient by resting her eyes at the same time, building up strength for her triumphant charge to her feet.

She'd gotten off her right glove and was getting to work on the vembrances when she heard voices approaching the tent. More specifically, she heard Mary's voice. _Uh oh._

"My Lady Johanna, may we come in to take your dishes for you?"

"Ah, I'm afraid I've not quite finished dinner yet. I'm feeling a bit, um, indisposed at the moment."

"I'm sure you are, dear, and I've brought just the thing to help."

The flap brushed aside and Johanna heard at least one slight intake of breath at her rather unceremonious pose, but the venerable Mary merely stepped over her and put her hands on her hips.

"My, but that is certainly no pose for a lady, even one as fearsome as yourself," she observed, and arched an eyebrow with enough power to mystically grant Johanna the energy to slowly, painfully climb to her feet, after which she promptly plopped down onto the stool Genine placed behind her with a look very much like that her daughter Angela had given her on first stepping inside.

"Now, let's see about getting this armor off you." Yet Mary hesitated a moment, glancing disapprovingly at the man still flopped on the floor.

"It's all right, Mistress Mary. I'd intended to check over his wounds is all," she said, flushing slightly as the woman's other eyebrow arched to match the first. "It's not like _he_ had much say in winding up here."

Still, Mary insisted they send Angela for a mat first, which they placed him on, head turned away, before they started helping her remove the armor, and not without frequent suspicious glances in his direction from Mary.

But then it was off and she felt gloriously light, almost like she was floating. So much so, in fact, that she could almost walk unassisted. Mary had had her eat her dinner, which was even better than it had smelled, while the women heated water over a fire outside and peeled off her clothes and underclothes, and unbinding her chest. They clucked disapprovingly as they saw the deep bruises on her shield arm, the purple welts and scratches on her neck, and the bright burn marks where the heated armor had scalded her skin. She never should have let the risen she'd set on fire get that close to her in the first place, not to mention close enough to jump on her.

 _No, don't think about that now. Think of how good this food tastes, how good it feels to be unbound, how nice to have_ company _again._

The plate had somehow been whisked way as she finished the meal and amazingly warm water rained down over her. There was a sharp intake of breath as the water met her burned skin, but then everything was warm and good as the women gently washed her, chatting away as her eyes slowly drooped closed.

 _I don't think . . ._ her mental voice was interrupted by a yawn, _I don't think I've felt this relaxed in years._

…

Angela blinked in surprise as she noticed the mighty Johanna had drifted off to sleep upright on the stool somewhere between treating her wounds after the bath and brushing out her hair. She looked up at Aunti Mary who gestured for her to keep brushing with a knowing smile.

"Remember dear, no matter how important or strong, or alone and small, a woman may be, beneath it all she's still a woman like you or me."

Angela nodded, sensing that, like a lot of things Auntie Mry said, she didn't understand yet, like stuff about boys. Later, maybe, she would. But just like normal girls? _Auntie, have you_ seen _this hair?_ Where hers was long and dark brown, like most girls she'd met (except Marianne and her daughter Elizabeth, with deep midnight black hair, but they were all the way over in Lake Town, so they didn't count), Johanna's was so blonde it was practically white! But she wasn't nearly old enough for white hair. No, Angela knew, Johanna was definitely special.

"Now ladies, let's lie her down on her cot and let her rest while I deal with this young man here."

...

Marcus bolted upright the moment his eyes opened, his hands scrabbling over the bare skin above his heart. He rounded on the only person nearby. "Where is it?" he hissed through anger and fear so deep the words were barely intelligible. The person, a woman, had jumped to her feet and taken a step back, eyes wary. She pointed with one hand. "There."

He whirled, following her gesture, and snatched up the worn leather sheath, hastily slipping his head through two of the thongs and sliding the third under his left arm. The whole thing had been carefully designed and measured to leave the blade tightly against his chest, right over his heart. Only then, right hand clenched reflexively on the grip, did he begin to take in his surroundings, to feel the pounding headache in his skull, and to sag back down to the rough mat he'd been lying on.

"What happened, where . . . where am I?" He cradled his head with his left hand. His right never left the blade.

The woman, the same one from the fight, stepped closer. "We are back in New Tristram. I carried you here."

He blinked. It was hard to credit her with the giant in armor standing over him from his memory, but he stopped and really looked at her for the first time. She was big, easily taller than him, and much more solidly built. Well toned muscles built for strength distracted the eye from her already only modest curves. Her platinum blonde hair had been braided into intricate designs that framed her attractive face and green eyes with a hint of blue in them. He'd put her at maybe thirty.

She was good. Everything he'd never be. But the point was, there wasn't much doubt she could do it, and if she said she'd carried him, then he wasn't going to argue.

"Fine." He nodded as curtly as he could manage. "My thanks, but I must get back out there." He reached for his borrowed boy and arrows, but they were gone. At least Rumford's knife was next to where his dagger had rested, and he picked it up, examining it for nicks.

"Slow down there friend. I haven't finished treating you yet."

He glanced down at the bandages across his chest before looking the question at her. They seemed to be fine to him.

She sighed and shook her head. "If you charge off alone with a half-treated concussion you'll only get yourself killed."

Marcus reminded himself, again, that she'd saved his life. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a conversation this long, but he supposed he owed her. But that debt had limits, and he was fast approaching them.

"You don't understand. I have an oath."

She laughed and Marcus' eyes burned at the mockery, hand ready with the knife, but stopped in confusion as he heard the real humor in her voice.

"Believe me, friend, few people understand what that's like better than I. I also understand delaying, for a time, so that an oath can be more fully fulfilled. Come, it will take me another day or two to recover enough myself to finish healing you. Sit for a while and tell me of this oath of yours."

Marcus hesitated, on the knife's edge. Through the open tent door he could see the woods calling to him. There were more of them out there. He could feel them, and the very thought of delay boiled his blood. And yet, he'd hesitated, and in that moment he felt the weakness of his limbs, the pain in his head. He would die out there.

But wasn't that the point? Wasn't that the decision he'd made? Wait. He'd hesitated, not just now, but back in the burnt-out ruins. He held out his betraying right hand and stared at it, half angry and half confused.

"Why am I still alive?"

"Because you are worth saving."

He startled at the response, surprised he'd spoken aloud, then bristled at the words she'd said. "No, that's not what I . . . No, you speak of things which you don't understand, could never understand," he snarled. He wanted to run, to flee, to fight, to _do_ something, but it was too late. If he stayed, if he was careful, he could kill more demons by waiting than by charging out there now. _Damn that oath to hell!_

She'd gotten him thinking again, and that was the one thing he couldn't kill, the one place from which there was no retreat save madness or death. He bit off another curse and glanced at his tormentor who sat watching him. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

She took his aggressive tone in stride, unfazed. "I'm not keeping you here, friend. My guess is it's that oath of yours."

"You wouldn't understand," he repeated. He looked away, unable to keep eye contact, feeling a strange mixture of bitterness and embarrassment.

"It doesn't seem that bad. You saved the town, after all."

Marcus shook his head. "No, _you_ saved the town. I killed monsters and demon spawn."

The woman watched him curiously. "Is that your oath, then? To hunt evil?"

Marcus shook his head and looked away. "No. My oath is to kill. To kill demons and their ilk mercilessly, relentlessly, and unceasingly, until they kill me. It is what I do. It is who I am."

That gave pause even to this damnably inquisitive woman, and there was a long moment (at last!) of silence before she spoke again. "That is a hard oath, friend. I hope it gives you peace."

"Peace?" He laughed once, the first time in a long time, but it tasted bitter in his mouth. "Perhaps once. Now it gives me war."

She rose from her seat and stepped closer. "I'm ready to give you another treatment now, if you're ready. I warn you, you will need at lease one more before you're ready to fight again."

He nodded. "Do it."

She placed her hands on his head with a warning. "You might want to sit down for this."

The Demon Hunter flinched at her touch but let it pass. He was too distracted by the strange feeling in his head. There was a strange pressure that slowly faded, leaving him feeling better, clearer, but still not exactly back to normal.

"You used magic . . . you're no wandering knight. What _are_ you?"

She smiled faintly, looking a little drained. "My name is Johanna Svetslan, and I am a Crusader. And you?"

He supposed he owed her that much. "I am Marcus Bastiat, and I am a Demon Hunter."


	2. The Fallen Star

**A/N Thanks to Mirajane-fan and midnight6277!**

 **Chapter 2: The Fallen Star**

There was a celebratory meal that night. It was a little too lean to call a feast. Johanna was the guest of honor. She'd tried to insist that Marcus be as well, but they'd been hesitant, and he'd just shaken his head when she'd looked over at him. He much preferred being over by himself in the corner, or better yet, outside. At least he'd gotten something out of it—Rumford had turned his stolen knife into a gift, though he'd winced when Marcus had kept the bow and asked for another quiver.

Still, the whole thing felt . . . strange. He hadn't been run off yet, for starters. But to have a party while the dead still wandered past your gates . . . There was a dark undertone here, even he could sense it. The cheer was a little too forced, the wine a little too free, and the tables with a few too many empty spaces. It set his teeth on edge. But, he reminded himself as he took another pull of ale, it didn't matter. Another day and he'd be completely recovered. Officially, at least—Marcus was confident he was already back to normal after Johanna's second treatment, especially after she'd forced him to go bathe in the river first. He always recovered faster than people expected.

Marcus' attention was drawn as the Crusader, still in full armor from her shift at the gates, was pulled aside by a red-headed girl. Unlike the usual loud toasts and thanks the girl drew her a little away and spoke quietly enough that Johanna had to lean down to hear. And whatever she said made the woman frown and nod. Not five minutes later the Crusader excused herself and slipped over to her tent.

Marcus frowned and slowly put down his oak mug.

…

Johanna rubbed the crack in her shield ruefully. She was fairly certain it had happened when she'd rammed that wretched mother, but the subsequent abuse had widened it to almost an inch. It was going to be a problem. But, as always, duty called. She scooped up her flail and peaked out of her tent. For the moment, at least, nobody was looking. She slipped outside and moved towards the river at the back of the town. It was virtually unguarded, left alone save for the ferryman they'd kept on constant alert in case they had to evacuate across the river. She considered Leah's words again as she walked, feeling the cool evening breeze against her face.

Her grandfather, Deckard Cain, still somewhere in the old Cathedral. It didn't seem possible he could still be alive after all this time. But she'd been insistent. Apparently he'd had plenty of food as he'd been prepared to stay there studying for some time. So technically he could still be alive. But with the place overrun by risen, wretched mothers, and the light knew what else, it wasn't likely. Still, Leah had insisted he knew the old cathedral better than anyone else alive, and apparently the place was a labyrinth of hiding places. Which, of course, meant it would next to impossible for _her_ to find him either, but really, that was all beside the point. The town was more or less safe now, and whatever was causing this mess was almost certainly in that cathedral. If she could find the girl's grandfather, then so much the better.

"Well, no time like the present. Hello there ferryman. Would you mind dropping me a little ways up the river form here?"

The older man doffed his hat uncertainly. "Um, of course miss, I mean, my lady . . ."

The ride upstream was uneventful. Johanna watched idly as the ferryman's horse pulled against the draw ropes, moving the ferry slowly but surely up river, throwing a little bow wave off the old timbers of the raft. The man wisely kept his horse and craft to the Wortham side of the river until they'd neared the furthest opening into the woods she could talk the ferryman into taking her.

He brought her within a couple of feet but refused to actually touch the shoreline, positive the land itself was cursed. Johanna just shook her head. She gathered herself and made a leap, splashing in the mud as she landed and waded her way forward to dry land.

…

Leah waved goodnight to Bron and Angela before closing the door to her room with a sigh. The smile melted from her face and the worry lines she'd tried so hard to hide reappeared across her forehead and she sagged against the door frame. _Uncle Deckard, please be okay._ It probably wasn't fair of her to pile her concerns onto Johanna after all she'd already done for them, but she'd had no one else to turn to.

At least she could have another day to rest, and maybe take some of the militia with her now that the need at the gate wasn't so pressing, so it shouldn't be too ba—"

"What did you tell her?"

Leah jumped in fright at the hissed words and whirled, eyes wide, to see a man dressed in black rags standing in the corner, his blue eyes boring into her.

"I didn't, I mean, what are you doing here? Get out of my room!"

"You're lying! What did you tell her? Where did she go?"

"I don't know what you're—wait, she's gone? She left? Alone!?"

The man nodded darkly. "Now, _what did you tell her?_ "

…

Leah was terrified. Half of her was deathly afraid of what might be out there waiting for her as she stumbled along after the half-visible black cape. She had seen more than her fair share of strange and terrible things helping Uncle Deckard with his work, but this . . . this was something else. There were things out there, shuffling, sniffling in the night, but somehow they always seemed to just barely miss running into them.

The other half of her was terrified of just what might happen to Johanna if she charged in there to the cathedral, surrounded by monsters, only to find the gate locked. She had to get there, had to set this right.

They stepped out of the trees and onto the path.

"We should be close. Where is it?"

Leah squinted into the night, lit only by the dying embers a from a day-old campsite's fire pit. "I told you, it should be just up this path. Captain Daltyn and the others fought their way back to my mother's old hut and hid the key to the cathedral there. Wait, is that . . . oh no, not you to Jarom!"

She rushed over to the camp fire, willing herself to be wrong. No, she'd recognize the silly, too-big blacksmith apron anywhere. Jarom was gone.

"He's dead, forget him. Come on." The demon hunter's voice was harsh and urgent.

She turned, tears threatening to break out. "How can you be so heartless? Don't you care that people died? These were my friends!"

Marcus grunted. "No. How about this then; they're coming. Leave him or die with him."

Leah's eyes went huge as she heard the unmistakable, indescribable groans of the risen dead growing closer and she bolted after the grim-faced mas as he moved on into the dark without a backwards glance.

He really would have left her there, she realized with a shock. Marcus broke into a brisk jog down the trail and she followed suit. By the time her mother Adria's hut came into view she was breathing heavily and struggling with her traveling quiver which bounced awkwardly against her back with every step.

Marcus pointed without breaking stride. "Is that it?"

"Yes," she gasped.

"Damn. We'll need time to search. Get inside and start looking, I'll slow them down." With that he darted into the woods off the path and seemed to vanish. A moment later she heard the twang of a bow-string and an unearthly shriek of rage that sent a jolt of adrenaline through her system. She practically crashed through the front door, sending dust flying, as she finally came to a stop, chest heaving.

Key, key, where was that darn key!

The hut was definitely the worse for the wear. Much of the furniture was broken and trampled in a flurry of violence. And there were . . . bodies. Two of them in the rough leather armor of the New Tristram militia. She searched them as quickly as she could, eyes blurry with tears that fell freely, refusing ot see their aces, to recognize the good men they'd once been, to be the one to have to tell the already grieving wives and snuff out that last, faint hope.

Her hands were bloody and shaking by the time she'd finished with them, but still no key. The demon hunter appeared in the doorway. "Where is it?"

Leah scrambled to her feet. "I don't know, I don't know, I can't find it!"

He shut the door behind him and squatted to peak out through a gaping slice in the heavy wood, left by something with claws. Big claws. And she couldn't help but notice that he'd gone through more than half of his arrows already. No, this couldn't be happening!

Marcus took his time lining up the shot as the risen shambled in from all directions. There was no way he could get them all before they made it to the hut, and it was too thin a dwelling to make an effective fort, as those dead militiamen had discovered. No, he couldn't stop them, so instead he made every shot count.

His pointer and middle finger let go and the fletching buzzed past his cheek to fly true, straight through an undead's eye socket. The monstrosity dropped instantly, but he'd known it would from the instant he'd let it go. By the time the thing died its second death he had another shaft knocked and drawn.

He felt good. He was here, doing what he was supposed to do, killing monsters, and it looked hopeless, which was fine by him. He brushed the handle of the dagger strapped to his chest, making sure it was ready. They might finally take him down, but they'd pay a far greater price than they knew for it.

He let the arrow fly and glanced behind him to see the girl in a sorry state, staring into space and muttering. Shock. "Hey, keep looking for that key! And give me your quiver." She complied and started numbly searching by the time he'd turned back to the window. They were close now, fifteen yards or less from now on. Easy shots.

They were banging on the back wall now, their shattered spirits long past the subtleties of doors, but the already broken walls would only hold them for moments, if that.

Almost time now. He took a deep breath and readied himself.

"I found something!"

Leah's voice surprised him and he turned to look just as a risen plowed through the back window, face-planting onto the old, moth-eaten rug.

Marcus sent a shaft through its leg and looked over to where Leah was frantically gesturing. A trap door. She'd found a damned basement of all things. A way out, perhaps.

Not yet, then. _Damn oath._

He dashed over as another risen battered the door he'd been firing from to splinters with supernatural strength, and dove for it, falling down after her and slamming the trap door shut behind him.

The basement was dark, almost pitch black. The only light came from hints of starlight that snuck through the battered roof and filtered down past the floorboards.

Leah held absolutely still as she listened to the risen stumbling about just inches above them, searching. She hugged her knees to her chest and struggled not to sneeze at dust and cobwebs all over her. A shiver ran through her at the thought of all the spiders that could be down here, while her conscious mind berated her. _Spiders are definitely better than what's up there._

Something shifted in the darkness.

The movement caught her eye but she had not a clue of what was down there, in the black, with them. The urge to sneeze was forgotten as Leah stopped breathing altogether. It moved again and Leah caught the faintest glimmer off a breastplate. Stunned disbelief flooded through her. She knew of only one person from Tristram that wore a breastplate.

"Capt—"

An iron fist clamped over her mouth almost instantly. She struggled for a moment of blind pani until she realized it was the demon hunter. Then she listened with growing horror to the deep, unnaturally twisted voice that called out.

"Gerard? Rumford? Is that you?"

The blood seemed to freeze in Leah's veins, and she could have sworn the air was getting colder as goosebumps broke out on her arms and the back of her neck.

"Six days, we waited for Rumford. Run off like a coward while we held. Came down to the dark to hide, but one of them came down after us. It got Gerard, got him good, bit me, too. Then the waiting. Nothing to eat but risen flesh, nothing to drink but the hottles we couldn't read in the dark.

Gerard, you're not doing so good, are you? No, not talkative today. Not today. Maybe a little more of your leg off today will make you more talkative, eh Gerard?"

The squelch of flesh being torn prompted the mad gurgle of a risen and insane giggling. "Oh, that got you talking, didn't it?"

The hand slowly eased off Leah's mouth and she could feel the demon hunter start to move very slowly away from her. More than anything in her entire life she wanted, _needed_ him to stay close, but she couldn't make a sound, couldn't move a single muscle.

"Gerard how could you say that, they'll come back. They would never abandon us. No, they'll come back, and they'll bring food with them, so many arms and legs, and—what!?"

The voice cut off in alarm followed almost instantly by the sound of steel cutting flesh. The temperature dropped dramatically and Leah began shaking all over, her teeth chattering. She could hear them fighting in the dark, punching, wrestling, tearing flesh.

It seemed to go on forever as Leah squinted into the black, desperately trying to see, yet afraid to look. And then it stopped.

Silence.

Then, at last, the snap-hiss of flint striking sparks and a flam burst to light. The demon hunter stood hunched over, as upright as he could get in the cramped confines. Below him lay the sunken features of a risen in the uniform of a militia, with the demon hunter's knife stuck in it. It had huge chunks of its legs and arms, and even its face, missing but it seemed to have been alive, or as alive as risen got, until just now. And behind him was . . .

Leah threw up, the gag reflexes overcoming everything else at the sight of that abomination, but she couldn't un-see the image burned to the back of her eyelids.

It had once been Captain Daltyn, one of the best men she'd known. It still wore his breastplate and uniform, but blood was splattered all down the front and stained into his neck and all around his mouth. His skin was bloated yellow with bright purple splotches, but his eyes, still open, were completely black.

His head was almost completely separated from his body.

The sight was too horrible. She had to look away. The only other thing to see was the demon hunter, carefully searching what seemed to be old shelves with dusty bottles filled with different-colored liquids. In fact, the floor was littered with empty bottles, some shattered, some still intact with traces of their half-drunk contents still inside.

It was too much, and Leah's ind struggled to take it all in, to make sense of it. It kept getting stuck on the small things.

"How did . . .how did you see the bottles? You didn't step on a single piece of glass . . ."

Marcus ignored the question and turned back towards Leah. She was . . . not doing well. And it wasn't going to get better any time soon.

"You're mother had her secrets . . ."

"P-people said she was a witch, but . . . I never believe it . . ."

He turned from the shelves with a dusty book in his hands. "I found the key on him." He tossed his head towards the dead man across the cramped room. "I also found this, some sort of journal."

Leah rallied a little bit at the sight of the journal, something she could understand, something she could do. "That might be my mother's journal. There could be answers in there about my family." She snatched up the book and started to open it, but hesitated. "But after, afterwards . . . we have to save Johanna first."

"No. You've done enough. When the risen disperse I'm taking you back to New Tristram. I move faster on my own, and worse things than this Daltyn of yours are surely waiting for me inside the cathedral."

Leah shuddered and hugged her moth's book to her chest.

...

Johanna finished off the last risen with afinal sweep of her flail. It collapsed ot the cold dirt with a final shudder and Johanna paused to get her bearings. She ahd to be getting close now. The risen were getting more and more common. Fighting her way through them was wearing her out and slowing her down. But she had to be close now.

Yes, there it was, coming into view around the bend. Wow. She'd been a little skeptical of the term cathedral way out here in the country, but the huge stone building certainly lived up to it.

Or, perhaps, had once lived up to it. Its thick walls were overgrown with ivy so dense it had torn out sections of the masonry. The grounds were in disarray, the grass marred with streaks of barren dirt and patches of weeds. Some of the gargoyles still stood watch, but most of those had chips and cracks. The biggest problem was the great hole in the ceiling where something, undoubtedly this star the townspeople kept talking about, had crashed down with enough force to blow out what was left of the stain glass windows, leaving gaping dark chasms in their place.

The grounds themselves were surrounded by an old but very sturdy-looking stone wall, the gate of which should be right over . . . uh oh. Johanna jogged over to the ornate but serviceable wrought iron gate. It was locked by a heavy chain and padlock. She gripped the cold metal in her heavy gloves and gave them a yank.

They clanged and rattled uncomfortably loudly in the dark and she heard at least one risen groan in response.

Not good. She gave it another hard jerk and it clanged more loudly still, but it didn't budge. She was definitely drawing a lot more attention than she'd hoped. She couldn't afford to mess aroudn with this. She needed to get in their before she had an army of risen all over the place.

She backed up, attached her flail to her belt, and raised her shield. This was going to be very loud. And probably hurt. Maybe a lot. But there was nothing else for it.

"Blunt force isn't always the best way, crusader."

Johanna whirled to stare into the dark. After a long moment the demon hunter materialized out of the night and suddenly his tattered mottled black and gray clothing made sense; it made him practically invisible. "What do you suggest then?" Scale the fence? I'm not as agile as you are, Marcus."

"Simple." He stepped past her and pulled out a heavy iron key. The padlock fell open and he unwrapped the chain.

"What is your purpose here, Marcus?"

"To kill demons."

She blinked. "Are there demons here?"

"Inside." He offered no more explanation.

"I'm here for this fallen star and Leah's uncle. He's an old man, white hair—"

"I know."

"How?"

"The girl described her." He brushed past her, and that was that.

Well. Having a conversation with that man was like beating her face against a wall. She followed him through the gate and wrapped the chain around to hold it closed, but left the padlock off. Hopefully it would be enough to keep the risen inside. By the time she turned around the illusive man was gone.

The risen were gathering, drawn to her noise. A little help form the man's bow wouldn't go astray just now. She sighed and readied her flail.


	3. The Legacy of Cain

**Chapter 3: The Legacy of Cain**

Johanna leaned hesitantly to peer down into the massive crater. Blue energy of some sort was imbued into the crushed stone. She pulled back quickly until she was safely five or six feet away from the edge. Her heart rate gradually returned to normal and she breathed out long and slow.

Okay. Whatever it was, it was a long, _long_ way down. Surely there had to be some stairs that would lead her down. She turned to look but all she saw was a single staircase going up, and at the moment a steady stream of risen were flooding down it and towards here. She looked back towards the large front doors, but her battle on the way in had attracted a small army of them from the funeral grounds around the side of the cathedral.

She was trapped.

Well, she'd known from the moment she started rattling on the front gate that if she came inside she was committing to this little adventure. _I just didn't think I'd be quite so committed quite so soon_.

And there was only one way in available to her now. That meant facing the drop. Again. She'd never been so tempted to take on a horde of risen in her life.

…

Marcus frowned as he watched from the rotting benches of a subterranean choir loft as a group of people from some sort of cult performed a ritual. They were trying to summon a demon, by the looks of it, but almost certainly for their own protection. Several of their number were down already while all of those not actively involved in the summoning were trying to hold off a bunch of skeleton warriors.

Whoever they were, they weren't controlling these souls, so they couldn't be responsible for this mess, but they were also summoning a demon. They'd made their choice.

He lined up the shot carefully and released as he breathed out. The black-feathered shaft flew true and took the lead summoner in the heart. He collapsed, and without the anchor point the summoning fizzled out.

Marcus turned to search for new prey as the cultists' screams echoed through the depths of the cathedral as the skeletons moved in, cackling madly.

…

Deckard Cain was right in the middle of a truly fascinating text when the skeletons caught up to him again. He marked his place carefully before closing the book with a thud and moving on as fast as his tired old legs would carry him.

At least this deep into the Cathedral he had only to deal with the slower, lumbering skeletons drawn from the crypts. There was still the question of _how_ it had been done, however.

He pushed against a false wall that revolved to let him slip through. He grumbled in irritation as he struggled with the flint in the darkness, but after a few moments he'd gotten the old torches still in their wall brackets lit up again and he gently pulled out the tome once more.

Now, where was he again?

…

Johanna slowed for a moment. She'd been wandering more or less at random, but this place was even bigger than it had looked from the outside. There was a narrow winding staircase leading deeper below the cathedral and down into the catacombs beneath. The torches down there were lit—she could see their flickering light reflecting off the stone walls. There was no reason for the undead to do that. On the other hand, there was no reason for someone trying to hide from them to do it either. Ah well, why not? It wasn't like she could wander around down here forever. Sooner or later she'd annoy enough undead to swarm her under and that would be that.

Still . . . crypts were creepy enough _before_ the dead started coming back to life. She swallowed hard, set herself, and carefully descended the narrow winding staircase into the catacombs.

The air got colder as she descended deeper beneath the ground. An icy breeze blew, making the shadows dance in strange patterns as the torches sputtered. There were no breezes underground—not natural ones anyway. She shivered.

The crackle of the torches was suddenly joined by other sounds. Johanna froze, straining to hear. Somebody was fighting down there! She burst into motion, charging down the stairs in a clatter of armor, her fear forgotten.

The Crusader burst out of the stairway onto a landing that overlooked the grand entrance to the catacombs marked by two massive, sealed doors. Her attention was not there, but on one of the side passages branching off from it—she heard the rattle of skeletons and the cries of an old man.

"Deckard? Deckard Cain, is that you?"

Her voice echoed out into the darkness. Then he was there, stumbling away from a horde of skeletons. "Deckard!"

He looked up and saw her, then started stumbling her way. The skeletons were gaining. He wasn't going to make it. She sized up the gap between her landing and the plaza below, a massive pit that glowed with a strange blue light. It would be close, but it was the only chance. She chanted a prayer, gathered holy energy within her, then took a running leap off the landing.

She could feel holy power lifting her higher than any natural leap of hers, even if she weren't in armor, and soared in an arc towards the landing. She gathered her energy which crackled with power around her and slammed to the ground with a blast of holy light. The nearest skeletons blasted apart, but more were coming, including a huge skeleton with a massive headsman's axe and the remnants of plate armor. "Get behind me, Deckard." She readied her flail.

…

Marcus was deep within the crypt. He was running low on arrows again. No more fighting until he found whatever was causing this. It was pitch black but that wasn't about to stop him. The whole place was covered in dust, caked onto the rotted caskets and freezing stone. He crept forward, carefully placing each foot to avoid brittle bones. He was close to the royal crypt now, which was the deepest and darkest of the lot, and whatever that star was, it seemed to have gone all the way down. It seemed fitting, somehow. But this door . . . it was big, that was certain. Ornate. Golden candlesticks flanked the entrance. But the doors were barred by a gate with a strange, circular opening. Some sort of key?

A distant sound snapped his head around and he crouched, tense. He hadn't disturbed any of the dead down here, he was certain, so what could . . . the Crusader. It had to be. Barging around like a lost bull, no doubt, the same as always. Damn her, if only she'd left this area undisturbed! But at his feet he could already see the bones beginning to twitch. It was as he'd thought. Something had raised the dead, but the skeletons here, they were controlled more directly by someone or something.

Time to move.

He raced through the black corridors, throwing caution to the winds as the bones raised around him. At last he burst into the light and winced at the glare of the handful of torches that lit the scene. Johanna was there with an old man behind her, trading blows with a skeleton a foot taller than any of others. He knocked an arrow onto the string, drew back, and loosed in a single smooth motion. The arrow snapped through the creature's spine, and it collapsed to the floor in a clatter of bones and dust.

"Marcus! You're here!"

He sneered. "Of course I'm here, crusader. Now you've found your old man, but brought the whole cathedral down on us. You'd best say your prayers now; you won't have time for it soon."

...

Johanna looked at him, puzzled but not offended. She'd heard the jibes far too many times to care, but he hadn't seemed the sort. She shrugged. He was right about one thing—it wouldn't matter in a few moments anyways.

"No, there is a way for us to escape."

The Demon Hunter looked at Deckard in surprise, but there was something else Johanna couldn't quite put her finger on. Disappointment? Surely he couldn't hate her _that_ much.

"Do tell, old one."

Deckard slowly made his way over to a massive bookshelf piled high with scrolls, some sort of record of burials. He placed his hands carefully and pushed with an odd lifting motion. The bookshelf itself slid backwards and open to reveal a hidden staircase. "I learned of this secret passage through some of the old maps I found deep in the Cathedral. Now come, we haven't much time left."

Johanna followed Cain with a whispered prayer of thanks and they closed the bookshelf behind them, dampening the cackle and cries of the dead as they swarmed to the sight of battle. They were silent as they climbed, afraid to draw the attention of the dead as they made their way up the tight spiral stairs. Well, as quiet as they could be—Johanna's armor rattled with every step. Far less than normal plate, thank the heavens, but far louder than she'd have wished. Marcus in particular seemed to wince at each new heavy footfall on stone. They seemed to climb for a long time before, at last, they reached a small door. Deckard forced it aside and they stepped out and onto a walled-off courtyard. Deckard shut the door behind them, carefully replacing the drapes of ivy that masked its presence.

"Well done old man. But unless you want us to throw you over the walls, I don't see how we're going to get you out of here. That gate is rusted enough to bring a thousand dead down on us before we could get it open."

"There is no need, young one." He started walking.

Johanna glanced at Marcus, as mystified as he clearly was. He shrugged his shoulders and followed, and Johanna brought up the rear. Deckard led them to the center of what once had been a garden to a large stone circle on the ground. "This is a waypoint, created by the Horadrim long ago during the Dark Exile. It can transport the user instantly to other waypoints you envision in your mind."

Marcus pounced on it quickly. "Can any person use this?"

"You must be taught by a Horadrim how to use the waypoints. In thanks for saving my life, I will teach you this secret.

Johanna and Marcus watched intently as Deckard Cain began to teach them.

...

Johanna stumbled off the pad and dropped to a knee, her head spinning. She could hear Marcus throwing up behind her. Akkarat above, those things were unpleasant. She looked up to see Tristram not half a mile away. Incredible—it worked.

Deckard spoke up. "Thank you both, but why did you risk yourselves for me?"

"I didn't do it for—"

"We did it because Leah asked us to search for you," Johanna said loudly, talking over Marcus.

The scholar smiled and sagged in relief. "It is wonderful to hear that Leah is well. I feared the worst. But we must discuss the fallen star and there is nothing more we can do here. Follow me, to Tristram."

They trudged after the surprisingly spry old man. The demon hunter was as inscrutable as ever, but at least for her part Johanna was exhausted. She'd always bounced back quickly from exertion and injuries alike, but even so, going out again so quickly was really pushing it.

"It's them, they're back!" The watch cried out from his lookout post, waving his hands in the air to get the townsfolk's attention. "They're back!"

"Uncle, you're alive!" Leah ran towards her uncle at the front of the crowd and threw her arms around him, driving him back a step.

"Indeed I am, thanks to you and your friends here."

Rumford jumped up to the lookout post. A cheer for the heroes who rescued Deckard! Hurrah!"

"Hurrah!" roared the townsfolk, thrilled to finally have something to celebrate, to focus on that wasn't more death and loss. They were cheered all the way into Deckard's home, a lovely thatched roof cottage with plastered stone walls. Yet despite being pretty-looking, it was cramped and damp inside.

Johanna left her weapons at the door and settled into the offered chair. Leah quickly set about getting a fire in the fireplace. Marcus dropped his bow and quiver at the door, at least, though he kept the rest of his weapons on him. He elected to lean against the wall instead of taking a chair. Deckard eased himself with a groan into the over-stuffed easy chair.

The fire crackled to life, casting long shadows of the furniture and Marcus' brooding form. The man waited long enough for them to get seated, at least. "I have but one request, Cain. What do you know of the fallen star?"

Deckard sighed. "Not much, I'm afraid, though the Prophecy of End Days surely points to it as a sign that the end has begun.

"Oh uncle." Leah shook her head fondly. "We're not talking about prophecies and legends; they need to know about whatever it is that fell out of the sky."

"You should not dismiss the signs so lightly. Do you not believe the evidence of your own eyes?"

"I'm not interested in legends, old man. On my way down to the star I encountered a massive locked gate that had some sort of large, round key."

"Ah, you must have discovered the tomb of the skeleton king! The skeleton king was once our beloved Lord, Leoric. He was driven mad by Diablo's evil. He lost both of his sons—and his very soul—before he was finally defeated, after sending his son to Westmarch in order to—"

"A tragic story, but how do I get past the gate?"

If Cain was offended at the interruption, he didn't show it. "The crypt was meant to be preserved only for the royal heirs. To accomplish this, the crown itself was made to be the key to the crypt. Seek out our blacksmith, Haedrig Eamon; he knows of its whereabouts."

Marcus pushed off the wall and stalked out the door without another word.

Leah watched Marcus go until the door shut behind him, then laughed. "Your friend isn't very good with people, is he?"

"Leah, be polite. He did help to save me from the skeletons within the cathedral."

"Yes, uncle."

Johanna smiled at the young woman. "It's fine, Leah. Don't worry about him. Let's let Deckard rest; why don't we take a walk outside?"

Leah nodded and followed her out the door. They started walking slowly through the fortified town. The inhabitants gave them space. "So, what brought you and Deckard to this place?"

"Because of Uncle Deckard. We've been wandering all over Sanctuary for years now while he looks for clues of this prophecy of the end times of his." She sighed with affectionate exasperation. "He's found lots of bits and pieces of old lore he thinks are part of it, but me?" She shrugged. "I'm not convinced yet."

Johanna nodded. "I see. So is this just another stop in your travels, or is this the end of the road?"

"I think this is the end. For a long time, Uncle Deckard avoided coming back to this place. There were a lot of ghosts here for him. He was here you know, when old King Leoric went mad and terrorized the people." She sighed again. "I don't know what really happened here, but whatever it was, it was horrible. Nearly everyone who survived went mad. And now Deckard keeps saying it was demons, the great Lord Diablo, that caused it all. I supposed even old Deckard couldn't come out of something like that entirely unscathed."

Johanna looked at Leah in surprise. "Wait, you mean something like this has happened before? Please, tell me what you know. It may help us put things right."

"Well, I don't know much for certain. Nobody does. But I can tell you Deckard's version of it, for what it's worth."

"Please."

"Okay." Leah began to speak as they walked the grounds, laying out the sad story of King Leoric. He'd come from Khanduras in the name of the Zakarum church. Though initially resented, he ruled with fairness and strength, and gradually the people of Tristram had grown to respect him. But over time he began to . . . change. He turned mean and harsh, executing any who disagreed with him.

"From there the stories go on to blame Diablo for corrupting him and they get less and less reliable. What we know for sure is that he sent his army to fight a disastrous war with Westmarch, and upon their return, some of his knights attempted to assassinate him. The stories say they succeeded, but they must have failed because the king killed them himself, or had them killed, depending on the story. Eventually his son Aidan, a knight, returned and found his father mad. They fought, and Aidan killed him. The incident was so terrible that Aidan couldn't bring himself to stay, and instead wandered away, never to be heard from again."

They continued in silence, both of them thinking over the story and the dark times in which they lived. A few minutes later they found themselves in front of the inn again.

"Thank you, Leah, for telling me the story. And while Deckard may or may not be right about these prophecies, it does seem that he knows what he's talking about regarding this tomb."

"Oh of course! He may be a bit of a conspiracy nut, but he certainly knows his history, that's for certain."

"Well, it sounds as though I need to speak with the blacksmith. Thanks again."

The Crusader left Leah at the inn and walked off to find the blacksmith, who sat hunched over, staring at his anvil.

"Hello there blacksmith."

"Heh," he muttered darkly. "Nothing seems to ever change in New Tristram, does it?"

Johanna moved to sit by the heavily muscled man. "What makes you say that?"

"There's always some threat of the risen dead or foul evil descending on the town, isn't there?"

"Perhaps. But you can't give up hope."

"Hope?" He looked at her critically, bitterness seeping from his eyes. "I just killed some of my friends and my wi—" His voice caught, and he choked down a sob. "I just killed my wife, with my own damned hammer! She was trying to help the other infected and they bit her, so don't talk to me of _hope_ , girl."

Johanna put an arm around his shoulder. "I'm sorry, both for your loss and for what you had to do," she said gently. "But I need your help to save the rest of New Tristram. Can you tell me about King Leoric's crown?"

The blacksmith wiped his eyes. "I can—I can help you there. As I just finished telling that no-good friend of yours, it's buried with the king's chancellor, my grandfather Eamon. You'll find his tomb in the cemetery at the Weeping Hollow."

Johanna hesitated. She had what she needed, but didn't want to leave the man alone like this. "Tell me more about this grandfather of yours."

He shrugged. "Not much to tell. I was living with my father in Caldeum at the time. We—we heard that stayed in Tristram to the end, trying to save lives. Don't know if he succeeded, but there it is. When the Skeleton King fell, grandpa Eamon was dying of a sword wound. He had the crown sealed with him to ensure that tomb was never opened again. Ha! Doesn't seem to have worked, does it? The dead walk again anyways."

"Easy, Haedrig. It takes strength to stand against the dark. Thank you for your grandfather's sacrifice."

He nodded absently. "Thanks. You should go, not waste time trying to make me feel better."

Johanna nodded and rose to her feet. As she walked towards gate she glanced back over her shoulder to see Haedrig sitting a little straighter.

…

Marcus sat waiting for Johanna outside the gates. He wasn't certain why he waited for her, exactly. The roads, while still far from safe, were significantly better since their assault on the wretched mothers. So long as he kept his wits about him, he'd be safe enough. Perhaps it was the oath. He stood to survive longer with her around, and that meant he could kill more demons. Yes, that was it.

"Damn oath," he muttered habitually, though there was no venom in it.

Johanna rounded the bend and stopped dead in her tracks. "Marcus! Were you . . . did you _wait_ for me?"

He shrugged uncomfortably. "Maybe. You're pretty handy with that flail of yours. You ready?"

She nodded, and together they started making their way to the waypoint in silence. It wasn't the companionable sort of silence, and Johanna grew increasingly uncomfortable until she couldn't take it anymore. "So tell me Marcus, when you call yourself a demon hunter is that some sort of title?"

Marcus grimaced, but answered. "Yes."

"Where do you get the title? Is it a sort of organization?"

"Nothing so formal as that. We train in the Dreadlands, where no country interferes with us."

"Who is your leader?"

"We have none. All demon hunters fight. It is our oath. None of us live long enough to form a leadership. New demon hunters listen to the old. That's it."

"Do all demon hunters work alone?"

Marcus hesitated, then shook his head. "No."

Johanna let it go. Talking with Marcus felt like an interrogation, dragging information out of him. He wasn't one to contribute unless he wanted something. She shrugged and they walked on in silence, until at last the waypoint came into view.

Marcus stepped onto the ancient stone circle, which glowed with power in response.

Johanna pulled the shield from her back and drew her flail. Time to fight.


End file.
